


Black Widow

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: The Borgias
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are in mourning for your husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Widow

You are in mourning for your husband.

You dress yourself all in black: silks and laces, satins and brocades, netting and veils; jet and onyx and pearl at ears and wrists and throat. It is heavy, your costume of grief. It has real weight. It is not merely a costume.

Your husband loved you, and your child, and was sweet and kind and undemanding. He wished you well. He touched you gently, when he touched you. You did not wish him dead. You loved him.

You are not merely _in_ mourning. You _mourn_.

Your brother attends you at the funeral. It is the first time you've seen him since your husband's death, though he tried, more than once, to see you earlier. He sits quietly at your side, suitably sombre. Respectful. He, too, wears all black, as if it is ink that stains him and not blood. His clothes are cut finely, trimmed and fitted neatly to the shape of his body, lithe and light.

There is no real weight to Cesare's costume. Black is his usual colour.

Later, in the stifling warmth of your chamber, you are urgent about undressing him. Black fabrics slip carelessly beneath your fingers; black ties pull free with a rough leather burn. He in turn undoes your laces and hooks and pins with a kind of muted fury, stripping you of your many layers of widowed propriety as if they offend him as much as his fine funereal formality offends you. Your fingertips have been itching to lay him bare for hours; at their first touch to his skin, damp and soft and so pale as its black cladding falls away, fierce satisfaction runs liquid through your veins.

When Cesare has reduced you to nothing but your pale ivory shift, he kisses you, slanting his open mouth hungrily against yours. You taste a similar triumph on his tongue.

You wonder, as you rock down to meet the blunt stroke of his fingers on your sex, if this is comfort; and if it is, whose. You are already slick, aching where you're empty, and Cesare is already hard, his own wetness pearling from the crown of him and trailing down his length. Surely, if this were comfort--if the memory of your husband, whom you loved, was in the room with you--your wanting for Cesare would be less than it is, something less than need. Surely, there would be something more of apology in Cesare's desire. Surely, if this were comfort, you would want there to be.

You reach for him as he braces himself above you, rake your hands into his hair and hold his dark gaze steady with yours as he enters you with one slow push, breathing out your name like it is completion itself. You take him in: the red of his kiss-bitten mouth, the rasp of his voice, the scent of his body. You fill yourself with him. You wrap your legs around his waist and tilt your hips up and make him fill you.

This is not comfort, you decide, as you move together, as he goes willingly onto his back and you arch and roll down wantonly onto him. His hands on you--smoothing warmly up and down your sides, cupping and kneading your breasts, dipping between you to let his fingertips press and rub and insist--are not condolences. The hot rush of your pleasure as it crests for him, with him, is not forgiveness.

You loved your husband. You mourn him.

Had it been your brother you'd buried today, you'd have been buried yourself tomorrow.

"Black doesn't suit you, sis," Cesare murmurs as you curl together, as he drags slow, lush kisses down the column of your throat.

You agree.


End file.
